Snowfall
by sunflowerfields5
Summary: The muffled crestfallen sighs of snow smear the ground, the trees provide little cover, icy thin air, and rosy stains litter the field. Follow Cecil Andemis and her group of unlikely allies as they kill, wheedle, and lie their way through the 52nd Annual Hunger Games. Also, first story on this site, so, yay, I guess?
1. Chapter 1-Desperate Paradise

**A/N: All chapters after this one will not be of this absurd length unless I feel it is absolutely imperative to the story. So sorry if the lengths of chapters 1 and 2 were a problem for anyone, I just couldn't help it. Anyway, hope you enjoy the story and reviews are welcomed, good or bad. **

As life usually does everything starts out black, completely abysmal in color and depth. But as I open my eyes to the light of a new day, the world's blurs are present, conveying unto me the current nature of the outside. The corners sharpen, the colors and figures condense, little by little my world comes into focus forming the cracked moldy ceiling of our little ranch house. The aroma of bacon cooking wafts in from the kitchen and dances the flavorful possibilities across my nostrils.

Sitting up, the rough wool sheets grinding against my caramel skin, I look out the window beside the couch at the endless emerald pastures of District 10, just as immeasurable as sleep's black depths. It's warm today as expected of summer, however, a cool breeze blows across the beryl flat land and into the house, wrapping its cool embrace around my cheeks like a mother's loving arms. I stare for a moment at the ebony and alabaster mounds representative of lying cows before I amble along into the kitchen to find my father. He's a quiet man, not very conversational. The years of hard labor and sacrifice are present in his expression and tight muscles, but contours of sadness line his face, too, coupled with the laugh lines of a paradise lost. He nods a simple greeting unsure of what to say.

I can't say I hold resentment towards him for being silent on such a momentous day. I'm partially to blame; he tends not to speak when I wear my mother's things such as her old silken nightgown which surprisingly hangs loose on my plump frame. I pull up a chair as he does, pick up my fork as he does, and eat my eggs as he does. Most everything I do emulates him in some small way but I never notice and don't care to. He's all I got, plain and simple, if I can't model myself after him then who could I look up to? The Capitol airheads? The train jockeys from District 6 who pick up the meat? Or am I forced to walk the ragged beige dirt path of District 10's people, becoming nothing more than a weary steer with tired feet?

To put it simply, I have no other options. Like I have no option in everything else. Which brings me to the event of the day: the Reaping. Every year in our little Panem we hold a big event called The Hunger Games. A disastrous result of a ludicrous rebellion some fifty-two years ago. It's not rocket science; you go to the Reaping, pray your name isn't called, and if it is then you get to spend a few days in the lap of luxury only to be thrown into a diabolical arena meant to do nothing but hide the preternatural forces lurking in its organic guise, waiting to kill you.

But I'll think about that later on, although I hope I won't have to. I finish the meal and shove off to do my chores. Reaping day is not a full day off, at least not for me. It simply means I don't have to work at the slaughter house today. Half my daily routine still remains; eating, getting dressed in a yellow t-shirt and denim overalls, herding Mrs. Habershend's damned cows, and milking my own steer, Sebastian, and all the others. I personally hate cows (even though I, ironically, come from the livestock district) but they're evil no matter what anyone says. I deal with them anyway, hey, at least I can take it out on them in the slaughter house once this's done with. I'll tell you, there's nothing more pleasurable than the agonized cries of pain that emanate from a living creature when you send a scythe through its head, then twisting the blade to emit another scream. I'm overjoyed when I hold the glossy black shaft, knowing I have the power to end a life, the power to destroy. The adrenaline, it races through my veins on the forward slash as the victim looks on in terror with glossy black eyes of fear slowly coming to the realization that death has come. Just the thought prickles sweetly on my skin.

Before I get tangled in my thoughts I get down and grab supplies; pitchfork, cattle prod, riding crop, and my trusty sickle. The sickle's allowed for slaughter house use only, however, daddy likes to contradict orders a lot and makes me bring it along, says it'll help if I'm in a bind. In other words, kill the animal if it gets out of control, which is also illegal outside the slaughter house, extremely _terribly_ illegal. Killing any animal not meant for slaughter is punishable by a public shooting executed by Head Peacekeeper, Amadeus Wren. And they are not joking either, I've witnessed three executions for this exact reason myself and Amadeus doesn't make it a pretty show. He's like me in that he's unhealthily sadistic and cruel, except I have a personal vendetta against cows; he just likes suffering. I begin my work, the fields are especially fertile today, I can tell by the earthy and sweet smell of the soil so strong this morning, as though it's trying to compensate for something, like it knows the day's severity, even the cows are more chipper this morning, maybe Sebastian's milk will be sweeter, too. I whistle an old pasture tune to summon Mortimer and Alvira, our work dog and horse. Mortimer is my favorite 'cause he isn't as stubborn or onerous as Alvira who seems hell bent on staying wild despite being a full and through domestic.

Mortimer is a sweet dog, but he's protective and much too courageous for his own good, I remember one time dad suffered a brutal public whipping because Mortimer attacked a Peacekeeper who was giving daddy a hard time, the punishment originally was to put Mortimer to sleep but daddy wouldn't hear of it and took sixty lashes in his place. Despite the fact my father was tough as leather and in good hands with our neighbor Billy and his father (who has some experience in medicine), I was furious with Mortimer that day, almost killed him myself, then daddy hit me upside the head and told me Mortimer saved his life, that the Peacekeeper was going to kill daddy in a show of his power just to impress some lady. I forgave Mortimer and ever since I do all I can to take care of him. Alvira, however, wouldn't make me too sad if she got herself shot, she's just here to make herding easier. I get on the hard black leather saddle and feel Alvira's smooth cocoa brown skin and brush my fingers gently through her atramentous mane. I like the feel of a horse, the look of a horse, and their spirit; while Alvira drives me insane I have to admire her tenacity, her ability to refuse orders and ignore the consequences, she just doesn't care enough, but I also admire her power. When I pull on her reins and whip her into gear I feel her energy, the spikes of strength communicating itself into me. We've unwillingly become one again and along with Mortimer we're an efficacious team. The pastures blot like green paint on a wood palette as Alvira speeds across the fields adding shades of brown and caramel by kicking up dirt and sending people jumping out of the way.

No one is particularly angry; they know my father and I, they're aware of our whims. It's who we both are, nothing more. The three of us haul up into Mrs. Habershend's ranch and speed by her without even a hello. I don't wanna waste time with greetings; I _need_ this more than ever today. If this is going to be my last day in District 10, my last day with Mortimer and daddy then I want to enjoy it, I want to forget for just one moment that today isn't normal, special, or dire. I want the moment to take tangibility in the most vibrant colors of the gales, pastures, and stars so that I may hold it placidly in between my fingers and bottle it so I can stay there eternally. I want that guarantee, the promise the world was supposed to give me in which I live long and buoyantly, I want my life. Nevertheless I know it cannot be, if I am selected, it's death. If I am not, it's oppression with mortal potential. It's like I've been released, I feel the snap of falling face first from your bounds and see I've come to the grazing cattle with Mortimer already blurring into a white, chocolate, and ebony wisp, hard at work. I also see that I actually am falling, quite fast actually, to the ground. Landing head-on into a cow pie I scream heinous obscenities at Alvira, threatening to take my sickle and lodge it straight in her head. She just whinnies and gallops off arrogantly, as if she's rubbing it in my face.

"Alvira! Alvira, don't you leave me, you bitch! I swear I'll come and stick the sickle straight through your intestines and have 'em for dinner".

I'm stomping frantically, shouting my head off until I'm just a red huffing stump. She's gone, she's really gone, she might come back later tonight if she's hungry and cold but if she has the instinct to run to freedom while I'm lost in the world that consumes me when riding a horse, she must have the instincts to survive on her own, maybe she'll find a rich merchant family who'll take better care of her than we ever could. I feel like crying and spasming uncontrollably in anger and rage but the feeling never comes. It never shows its face, I just fall to my knees feeling sad and empty. Not because I lost the horse or because my father might scold me tomorrow if I'm not selected, but because she can do what I never could. She can escape, she can find safety and happiness while I'm here working until I die. No retirement, no joy, just work and a wailing heart. Most of all, I'll miss the false sense of freedom she gave me, I'll miss losing myself in her pulsating soul, in the wind she whipped around me as we rode. I'll miss her so much. And I hate her for it.

The hours drag along by, with good chunks of dung still clinging to my face. Without Alvira I have to use the cattle prod more often today and it takes me a few extra hours to finish herding them all behind Habershend's fence. It's a long walk back to Mrs. Habershend's grubby old house which seems to fall apart more and more each day. A Peacekeeper who's sweet on her has been trying to help out but he's such a bumbling fool and Mrs. Habershend just plains hate Peacekeepers since one of them raped and killed her husband, poor fellow. He never saw it coming.

"They're all herded in, ma'am. Each and every one of 'em, as usual." I shout as I walk up to her porch.

"Where's Alvira? You were ridin' on her a while ago." She asks nonchalantly.

"She up and left me, flung me straight into a cow pie and ran off, whinnying as she went, like she was laughin' at me, you know?" I say back, not expressing much emotion on my face.

She tries to suppress her crooked smile and says "I can see that. Come on in and wash up. Today's a big deal for you I hear. Made it past the prelims and everything. Horrifying, isn't it? Made it into the main Reaping myself in my youth, was scared shitless." She ushers me in and I feel a slight comfort hearing about her experience.

I've never actually been inside her house before, now that I think about it. The interior puts the exterior to shame by comparison. Nice and clean, not a speck of dust or grime anywhere, a nice crystal chandelier, and even oaken tables with nice velvet lace coverings. Probably relics by the look of 'em, no one but a Capitol citizen can afford to buy lighting of this caliber and cloths of such sophistication. She escorts me in to the bathroom and throws a towel on the sink, saying to keep the muck in there. As I wash my face I think about my first meeting with Mrs. Habershend late last year. She isn't a friend of my father or my mother, just a person they went to school with. She looks like she used to be beautiful but years of working with the vicious genetically altered Capitol steer has given her face many gnarled gashes and scars. I met her one day when Alvira refused to listen to my directions, the damned bitch was running her own path for hours and we eventually, unintentionally, ended up scaring her cattle into their pens. She had been working from noon 'till evening trying to get them in there. She was amazed at my "natural" connection with animals.

Told me her new cows have been giving her trouble for weeks and that no one could get them in. They tried cattle prods, pitchforks, whips, horses, dogs, every herding trick in the book but no dice. I said I had nothing to do with it; it was either Alvira, Mortimer, or both. But she insisted it wasn't them, I had a quality about me that just made animals bend to my will. A quality that makes them feel safe, that makes them listen.

"Animals just don't listen to anybody, not really, maybe out of fear they know, but they humans well. Know you can't trust 'em. Yet they trust you." I remember her saying. It was weird. It will always be weird. Being complimented by strangers is a luxury that brings the most skepticism. Trusting is the first route to despair. Any person and animal that's seen me in the slaughterhouse knows that. She was a nice enough lady, I guess. A bit pretty before her various accidents but nothing amazing, I just could sense something was off with her and maybe she could use some help. The gait of loss and depression were present in her lithe swagger, I could feel an air unlike the wind, see a certain slant of light reproaching from her. I decided to help her out as often as I could for I knew how she felt, I wasn't aware of her hardship but it was obvious enough to me. So, I began herding her cattle, for free in the beginning, but she insisted on paying me about five months in and while I didn't feel quite right taking money from her I accepted anyway, with just the two of us my father and I get by well enough but some extra money coming in never hurt anyone.

Ever since we've developed quite the friendly rapport, where she treats me maturely and I act as her personal confidant, a pair of ears to listen to her problems. When I'm all cleaned up I can't help but turn my nose and eyes from the putrid sights and smells left behind in the sink, I never noticed how truly disgusting the whole mess was until now. Before I vomit I hustle out the bathroom and place myself comfortably on her shag carpet. The homemade fabric is scratchy but comforting; it reminds me of sheep's wool, so rough and soothing all at the same time. I knock off my boots and curl my socked feet around the coils and just rub my bare skin against the rug like I'm making snow angels. It is useless trying to get my mind off it, it'll just come back later while on the bus or when I'm actually standing in the Square at City Section during the Reaping. The horror of it all will be especially present when I see Caligula Allabritès' peach-colored and leathery skin pulled into a cruel smile, bearing his freakishly white teeth. He's an idiosyncratic man whom I've ever only seen on television; finally I will see he who escorts innocent children to their deaths in all his heavily altered flesh. Who knows, maybe one of those children will be me this year, maybe I'll be on that train to the Capitol watching the rolling green pastures disappear into a thick forest or an arid mountain range. I might be the girl being paraded about in an asinine cattle ranchers outfit, complete with a puerile ten gallon hat and glitter. The very thought of the ridiculous cow print dresses District 10's female tributes get stuck in every year for the interviews makes me cringe.

As I think more about my life if I am selected I can't stop. The images of the Opening Ceremonies, training, the interview, and the arena itself brings on a bout of flailing and epileptic movements, my mind is racing with thoughts of the tributes; the menacing sneer from the tributes of District 2, the glamor and beauty of 1, the brackish yet artificial appearance of District 4's children, and not to mention whom my District partner might be along with the potency of the other players. I pride myself on my killing ability, but I may well be up against other people. Real thinking and breathing people, I could care less about the emotional aspect of it-I learned to give up on empathy long ago-because when you become emotionally involved with anything then you're at risk of putting yourself through anguish, agony, and melancholy. It becomes this spiral twisting itself upon you, coiling the twangs and jitters of your head into strife, making the cords of your muscles tighten and pull on themselves until the tissue compresses into a compact scornful pressure which tears and begins seeping blood and a fluent sorrow. It's this contract of detachment that will ultimately help me in the end; it will become my ultimate weapon because once you let go, holding the blade becomes so much easier.

The vortex of my heart is collapsing in on itself eating out the void it once inured. I don't want to go. Not only out of fear, but of loss. The emotional detachment I held pride in has vanished, I realize what I'll lose if I go. I will lose my life here as a butcher, my father, the passive solace I enjoyed so long in the quiet wind of the pastures, in the leaves of grass beneath my boot-soles flickering in waves as the gale speeds across hurriedly yet gently in the way that they do. Mortimer will be gone, Mrs. Habershend, even that bitch Alvira will be among the dead I shall mourn if my desperate paradise is lost. I can't seem to pull myself from my thoughts enough to consciously notice the shaking of my body. My subconscious and my emotions know it's there and that it's happening but they all choose to ignore it. This is my moment, my time to feel myself in the colors of sentience.

"Girly! Girly! Girly, if you don't snap out of it I swear I'll slap you around right quick, don't think for a second I won't." I hear the mangled cries of Mrs. Habershend, the violent catching of her voice, the twinging of anger and fear present in her speech. She keeps true to her word and begins slapping me intensely, the pressure of her hand pressing firmly into my skin setting off the pain receptors in my nerves. I'm still flailing, still wildly thinking. By the time I finally come to Mrs. Habershend's hand is red as a ripe tomato. She's huffing hard, concern obvious on her face. Then the scars twitch up in anger and she starts shouting about how I scared her half to death, how she thought she'd have to carry me all the way to town for help.

"Don't ever do that again, you hear me, girly? Promise me you'll never do it again." She's still puffing out short breaths and refuses to stop squeezing me into her chest until I promise.

"I promise. I won't ever do it again. I promise. I'm sorry." It's plain to see I'm out of sorts by the monotonous pitch of my voice, the empty breeze spreading snowflakes across Mrs. Habershend's skin, making her hairs stand in shock. But she takes my word for it anyway and sends me on my way, telling Mortimer to come back to her if something should happen along the way.

"Take good care of her, okay, boy? It's time to pay back all the grief you caused her." She tells the dog seriously, as though he would fully understand, but the movement of his ears and the weird expression on his face that somehow conveys his determination proves me wrong. Mrs. Habershend beckons to me before I robotically go on my way, opening her arms wide, waiting for me to fall in and melt. I want to resist, I want nothing to do with her or anyone else anymore but I run to her anyway, aware just as she is that we may never see each other ever again.

"You're gonna make it, I know it. You're gonna come back and deal with my damned cow like you always do. You'll come back to deal with my damned self. You'll come back to me, I may not be there. I may not. But know I stop somewhere waiting for you. If you miss me just look in another place and you'll find me. If you fail, just keep courage; look for me under your boot-soles if you have to." Her words may not make sense, the poetry of it is confusing and hard to follow, however, I understand. I know full heartedly what she means, the fleeting nature of life, the connectedness we two share even though we've never acknowledged it until now. She means to tell me that, like me, she may not last. Maybe she's sick, maybe she's just speaking generally about how no one in District 10 may not last long with small crimes being met with harsh punishments, she might accidentally break a law that slipped her mind while I'm gone, if I go. If I stay, she'll live, she'll still be here just out working could be the cryptic message of her strange last words, words so unlike her harsh disposition. If I stay, I want to stay, not only for her but for all I love. I notice the position of the sun, gander at the grandfather clock standing laudably in her foyer and see I'll be late to milk the cows if I don't hurry. I whisper a final goodbye to her, a clean break, a nice clean break that won't make my possible death seem like a tear in her heart.

With Alvira gone I run across the fields without worrying about the stragglers in the path, just running, trying to simulate my final riding experience, but it doesn't suffice. While the wind is there, it's choppy and short-lived; everything is hazy and splotchy yet without the majesty and grace held before. As I approach my house, Mortimer by my side, my father's leaning casually over the white fence talking to the neighbor boy, Billy Tops. Billy's an odd sort, not that he's strange or has mental problems, he just has this infatuation with my father that goes back to when Billy was thirteen. He's eighteen now but not quite the full grown man you'd expect. He still has the dewy innocence of youth, his sweet gullible face tell nothing but the naivety in him, however, that's not to say he doesn't have the worn-down look of a District 10 citizen. He has the muscles to prove that he's spent a good deal of time wrestling down goats and bulls for fun among other strenuous "leisurely" activities. He has a few scars to prove he's been in some slaughter house mishaps, one in particular scares me a bit, but they give him an air of danger which he is in desperate need of. Because believe me when I say he looks and _is_ gullible enough to sell you his house if fed the proper spiel. Overall, he's simply a stupid and tender hearted kid who's hopelessly in love with his neighbor. It's a wonder his psyche's survived eight years in the slaughterhouse, really. I told my father about Billy's courting but he dismissed it as just "hero worship". I didn't understand what he meant until I started looking at the other boys in town who always seem to flock whenever the men are explaining something stupid like tying down a calf or how to play with a chicken without killing it and then yourself. They're chocolate eyes are glazed in admiration and astonishment as though what they're being told is the secret to life and peace, the most important utterance ever to grace their ears.

I attributed their wonderment to the subject until later I figured out some of those topics were taught by my teacher, Mr. Shulet, and the boys were dull as stone in class. It was the _man_ who hogtied their thoughts and imaginations, his confidence, wisdom, experience, and charisma had mesmerized them into a captivated and involved audience. But it's different with Billy, I know it. Those boys are usually without father figures or parents in general, so they project that want or need unto the speaker, Billy is not. He has a dad and there hasn't been a woman around here for three years, so he hasn't come looking to fill the void left by an absent mother. I also don't remember Billy ever really talking with my mother, anyway, except when he wanted to know where my father was. He loves my daddy. He doesn't like him, he doesn't lust for him, and his feelings are not platonic. The boy wants love and romance with him, any idiot can see it. His own father is awkward when Billy and daddy are together, as if he's interrupting a private conversation. My father either A) knows of it and chooses to ignore it or B) is more apathetic to other's emotions than I thought. He's an idiot anyway you look at it.

I walk up to the fence and greet Billy, he may be trying to steal my father away but he's okay. He rubs my hair, calls me squirt, and comments on how my hair is like stalks of ebony flowing down from my head. He's so fascinated with it even though his hair is just like mine; almost all of District 10 has hair like mine. It's a common characteristic that, luckily, wasn't the result of years of inbreeding. He deifies the stupid mass anyway, trying to sweeten me up to the idea of him being around.

"You are aware that my father isn't in love with you, right? Or is even fully aware of your feelings? And if he is, being nice to me would not gain you any footing." I say pointedly, trying to muss up some real entertainment.

He looks dumfounded and confused; the red rush of embarrassment and shock fluently fills his face, scarlet mortification shining through the caramel skin. He just looks down and kicks a pebble around the dust. Just rolling and rolling and rolling, reminding me of the cycle we here go through. Just wading circles through the dust of life until the shy winds stop kicking. Which it does, suddenly, causing my head to dip slowly upward until I apathetically look at daddy. There's a faint recognition, a faintness that has the depths of all the oceans. My father knows, he's always known, the subtle shifts in his facial muscles give it away, the ones I could draw perfectly, every crevice and crow's foot signals calm. Billy, as fucking retarded as he is, somehow catches it and a shy half smile creeps slowly and my father matches him with equal verve, which I can't stand. My father's mine, he always has been. And I'll be damned if some horned up eighteen year-old decides to take him away from me. I don't have a problem with gay people, it's love and romance that's the real threat here. I've seen it a million times. People fall in, their love is maddening, they can't dream of being away from each other, every waking fucking moment is that same person's stupid face looking longingly into yours until the gap must be filled so you can make the stars in heaven quake above you with your "love", and then it's as if the world is dead to the two lovers. They ignore their friends, their responsibilities, and then they have the audacity to ignore their families. I am all three to my father and I refuse to let that happen, I'm not going to be some minor inconvenience, a meddlesome gnat brushing down their fun. I refuse to be let go.

I push Billy away and tell him to go home, that we have work to get done before we gotta leave for the Reaping and grab my father by the hand to drag him inside. He's still looking back at Billy, when the hell did he turn out gay? I have to bite this love bullshit in the butt before it poisons his mind.

"Daddy, what the hell was that out there?!" The minute we're inside I scream at him, my face flushed with rage and fear.

"Um, nothin', sweetie. Just two men talkin' is all. No need to fuss." He's staring down at me testing an amused smile and letting it pass. Condescending. He's being _fucking_ condescending towards me, not even a good ten minutes and he's already changing. He always treated me as his equal, his partner, his life.

"What do you mean 'nothin'? I saw the way you were looking at him, have you been seeing him behind _my back_? You have a responsibility and that's your livelihood. I can't have you day dreaming in the slaughterhouse 'bout bangin' your little boyfriend and getting your ass beat by a Peacekeeper for slacking. Besides, don't you know what they do to…to….people like him? They kill them! Take them all the way to City Section and kill them live on television for all of Panem to see! I can't have that happening, okay, not to you. You're all I got and I wanna keep you as long as possible. Especially if…if…if" My voice has died to a croak and the last lines refuse to leave my throat, trapping themselves in my larynx never to come out. Until daddy finishes my sentence for me.

"Especially if you get picked…" He kneels down and hugs me, rubbing the back of my head with his right hand like he did when I was just a squirt. All day the urge to cry has come and gone but the flood gates never opened, but finally I give into the deluge of my swelling emotions and tears start running down my face. The fountain swells cold liquid until it babbles from the rim and drips slowly but surely down mine eye's muscle, leaving a frigid burning behind. I am crying now, I haven't cried since the day I was born, not even when my mother died did I shed a single tear. Letting go of someone you love, that's best done with arid palms. I just slump into his strong and scared body that has protected me for as long as I could remember and just let it all out. My tears soak into his white cotton shirt which he paid a lot of money for but he doesn't complain, just keeps rubbing my back until my throat is fiery with exhaustion and my eyes are dry and red. He's crying, too. This man who has kept me safe since birth with power feels powerless. He can't keep me from going, they won't let him, so he quietly lets his tears drip down his face, this is the first time I've ever seen him cry. We're all cried out now; no more stupid tears or feelings, both overcome with a deadening numbness that brings us back to life.

"Don't worry, sweet pea. Daddy's made sure you're nice and safe. You only got one slip in there and you and I both know you haven't taken any tesserae. I'll make sure there's always enough money to stop that. So you'll be good and safe. How 'bout we get to milkin' those cows, hon? If we finish up early enough we might have a nice little lunch." Though I doubt his words I try my best to express reassurance, but I know better than to hope. Hope is the thing with feathers that'll ultimately snatch your immortality in its talons. He guides me out into the yard. Well, it's not really _our_ yard seeing that no one but the Capitol can own land, but I digress. I gather up the cows and line them up side by side with Mortimer's help, grab a stool and get to milking. It's long, rigorous work that will labor your fingers to gravel and clay. We make do and complain very little, though. Complaining is a fruitless effort that just wastes time and upsets the cattle if you're too loud. We work down our line of 11 cows, me on one end and daddy on the other until we come to the final cow, Sebastian.

"Hey, Bassy. How you doing, girl?" I coo affectionately careening into her strong, thick neck. When we first got Sebastian I was charged with naming her. I didn't know the difference between a cow and a bull, hence the exclusively male name; however, my father still makes fun of me for it. I know I've made my resentment for the animal evident but for some odd reason Sebastian is just different from other cows. I don't know how or why, she just _is_, okay? So get off my back.

"You realize that cows are girls, right, not studs? Calling her 'Sebastian' is just plain dumb. You should change it before the town decides to think you stupider than you already are." His speech is inflected with so much mockery I know not to take him seriously.

"Daddy," I whine with an equal or greater amount of merriment. "You just don't understand, she's simply one hell of a cow." We both guffaw at our little piece of fun and decide to share the labor of milking her. I've never seen a happy cow in my life but I just look at Sebastian's stone expression that screams dullness and boredom and know she's content, which makes me warm a little inside too. Done, we're finally done with enough time to eat a quick lunch and get ready. For lunch we just have simple cheese sandwiches and some water, money's been tight lately so we can't really splurge for lunch like we did for breakfast. Daddy promises we'll get a little something better when we come home tonight; maybe even shop a little in City Section. When my meal is done and the table's cleared I hurry up to my room to bathe. The tub is filled with warm water which required daddy to run up and down the stairs with pots full of boiling water, I bet. I'm used to cold baths but today is special, so the more comfort the better, I guess. I strip my work clothes and slowly dip myself into the steaming pool, the water rippling away from me to the walls of the tub and back in tides.

I pick up the soap we bought about four months back and rub it gently across my skin. The scent is piney and musky all at the same time. There are little bits of rosemary inside to add an extra perfume, but it's rough and only proves to annoy me. I hate this dark green bar of muck but dismiss the thought, daddy worked awful hard to buy it for me. I even made a point of refraining from using it until an extra special occasion arises just to show my appreciation; the message was lost on him, though. I dip my head back and let my hair soak in the soapy herbal mixture that now surrounds me. When I pull myself back up I rub the soap on my scalp to a good lather and rinse once more. Before I know it the green bile is trickling down the drain and I'm drying myself off with an old threadbare washcloth that's been in the family for generations. I look at my cracked reflection in the mirror and wonder if the real me would come out through the breakage of the portal. I'm not pretty, too young for that. You could say I'm cute if you didn't know me. Big brown eyes, shiny black hair, and caramel skin that takes on a bronze sheen when I sweat. I bet in the Capitol they'd hate my protruding belly, my flabby arms, and chubby face. "Anorexia or naught!" I can imagine them saying in that asinine accent.

On my bed is a simple, red dress with floral print and straw sandals, prime Reaping clothes for someone from Slaughter Section. I put on my underclothes and just slip the dress and sandals on, a nice and cool outfit that'll be perfect for such a hot summer's day; I'll probably be sweating with apprehension, anyway. I grab an old hair tie and wrap my hair up into my signature tight no-nonsense bun. On top of my drawer I take notice of the long beaded necklace hanging over the edge. It's my mother's. My father gave it to me after her death but I shoved it back into his hands wanting to forget her as soon as possible, he must've thought it was time for me to accept what happened but truth is I never will. The necklace is too long, it was too long even for her, I try wearing it around my neck but it settles in a small mound at my feet. I decide to wrap it around my wrist until it's a nice bracelet and admire it. It's a culmination of lacquered pink, black, and white beads strung together by silver chain links that dig into my skin a little. They shine in different, layered, colors that are strong enough to evidence themselves but not enough to subdue the pink, white, and black. The jewelry makes a nice bracelet with little cow, pig, and sheep charms. I admire the sheep charm, mine and my mother's favorite animal. They never ever really harm anyone; they never would have been responsible for her death, their innocence too powerful to ever hurt her, that's why they're my favorite.

I walk back down the stairs and find Billy's back, a bit flustered and red in the face. He thrashes his head violently to my direction and gives me a curt greeting, wising me luck as he runs for the door. It almost makes me sad that he left without my saying goodbye for what might be the last time, _almost._ I gently smooth my fingers across the soft wood of the railing and blankly gaze, my eyes half shut. Daddy's ready in a simple white button down, a bowler tie, and cowboy boots that belonged to his granddaddy. He looks like something out of those really old picture books we have in the basement about men once known as cowboys, minus the silly hats. If I remember correctly, they did pretty much what everyone in Breeding Section does, herd cows. I come up to him and he moves his finger soothingly up and down my cheek, smiling, saying how beautiful his baby girl looks in this dress. I smile my thanks and he grabs his knapsack as we head out the door and to the bus station. Before we leave I nuzzle Mortimer and whisper a goodbye to him and shout across to the yard to Sebastian. She moos in response which gives me hope that she's actually been listening to me all this time. I walk away almost skipping, almost forgetting where I'm going.

It's a long walk to the deserted dirt path where we'll wait for the hulking monster of a vehicle to show up. It's more of a prison barge than a bus, really. Metallic gray, a hard armored shell with cruel curves and edges that'll cut a limb if your get too close, not to mention all kinds of weaponry stations at various spots. Daddy says the dark, ominous interior is even worse, that only a single dark blue light illuminates it. No windows at all, not even a windshield. The bus is self-navigating. Damn that District 6. The seats and walkways are so cramped it gives you a feeling of being trapped before you're even in the arena. The blue sign with the bus symbol is in view and about twenty families from my town are huddled together, waiting desperately, fear and sorrow fresh on their faces. I try my best to remain stone cold, being the only twelve year-old going. Twelve year-olds don't always make an appearance at the Reaping, last time that happened was ten years ago, but this year there'll be at least 200 others along with me, the most we've had in a long time. District 10's Reaping system is worked differently than those of smaller Districts like 12 or 5. Due to our high population, second only to District 11's, we have two preliminary Reapings. First, a Reaping is held in my home town where twenty children at the least are chosen (my town is the smallest in population compared to the other much larger towns in Slaughter Section so our turn out is but a mere speck), some have made it to the Final Reaping multiple times usually due to tesserae. Then you go to a Sectional Reaping in the biggest town in the section (District 10 is divided into four sections total; Breeding Section, Slaughter Section, Milking Section, and City Section). Once 20,000 children are selected for Slaughter Section they all get sent to the Finals at the Justice Building in City Section a few months after, waiting for their name to be called in front of all of Panem in all that time.

The odds are not in my favor. It's only my first year, I've taken no tesserae, and I live in the second biggest section in the District, so obviously my luck's ran out. The Peacekeepers on duty begin to shove us back as the bus comes barreling down the path, knocking up dust in its wake. It's as horrifying and menacing as described. I get a tingle in my arms and legs as I imagine those sharp blades cutting off my appendages one by one, bleeding my meat and bones onto the road, leaving a permanent red stain that no amount of rain water can wash out. I automatically hold myself and hang my head low, afraid to look into the darkness of the accordion doors that'll let us inside. My father and I were the last to show up so we're the last to be herded onto the bus. My father was not exaggerating about the malicious stink that fills the air, it's sterile and stale yet when breathed in there's a sickly sent of blood and rusted metal. The only light in the room is, in fact, cobalt blue. The seats face forwards and look to be made of scrap metal, the armrests look like they can cut into your skin. The seats would seem more fitting in a dungeon than a bus but the transport seems to be used for that purpose as well with all sorts of chains and blades looming over our heads. We're vehemently sat down in the chairs and strapped in with chains, our arms tightly wound to our sides and our legs pressed together. There's a partition on each side of your head that effectively blocks your view of your neighbor, but there's no point because they've strapped your head with a leather constraint that prevents it from moving left or right.

There's only about two inches of space between my neighbors and I, three inches between my knees and the knees of the woman sat in front of me. The constraints force me to look at her breasts. I hope this is a short ride. A pre-recorded voice affected by the Capitol accent comes on the intercom and tells us to "Buckle up! And enjoy the ride". Peacekeepers stand on either end, weapons at the ready, as if any of us are going to try and escape. They list the rules of the bus, mainly concerning what we can do, which includes nothing, and what we can't do, which includes anything. When they finish the bus begins to move right on cue and we're off. It's bumpy and this woman's breasts won't stop bouncing up and down making me uncomfortable. I should know her but I can't see her face. On this seat I'm only tall enough to reach her bosom. There are so many ways to get to know a person but this isn't one of them. The ride is boring. I was hoping it'd be like the bus to the Sectional Reaping with big windows viewing the rolling pastures and the images of other towns as we made our way to Greater Roots. If this bus is anything like Capitol trains then we should be there in about an hour or two, I'm tempted to ask one of the guards about it but push it out of my mind. I hear my father shuffling to my right; it'd be nice to see what he's doing. I can feel his foot bumping around and soon his knapsack is resting in our laps. I remember him cracking some nuts and seeds last night and packing them in there. I can feel his hand rummaging through it and a few other movements.

He asks if I want one and I risk a yes. He tells me to open my mouth wide, and catapults a big sunflower seed over the partition and onto to my tongue, the Peacekeepers are none the wiser to our game. He asks me if it made it and I give a resounding yes, he laughs quietly in satisfaction. We go on like this in ten minute intervals, trying not laugh at the stupidity of our captors. Even though it's not much this is a great bit of amusement for us. I hear the man in front of my father giggling quietly as, I think, a bit of our snack is thrown his way.

"Brings back memories from my youth," he whispers to me, "My daddy used to do this all the time himself whenever I made it to the Final Reaping and we had taken the Dead Child's Passageway." I recognize the ancient nickname for this ride and feel a huge lump in my throat.

He goes on. "He'd always go gather for nuts and seeds the day before and was up crackin' them all night, sometimes, if we had the money, he'd even bring a bit of candy. The Peacekeepers never figured out our secret and that made us real happy. He always landed the food perfectly in my mouth somehow. He'd share with everyone else on the bus once we got off while the names we're being called. We'd always come home that night and laugh our heads off. Tryna forget the fear and the two kids we'd see get slaughtered soon. I wish he was still live, Cecil. I really do, you would've loved him." He goes quiet and I decide to stay quiet. I vaguely remember my grandfather; he died when I was five of the flu. He sounds like a good man, like my daddy. With all these thoughts of dead people eating my head I think back to my mother, happy and beautiful. Mrs. Habershend's husband, who I imagine to be as handsome as she was pretty. The two men Amadeus Wren came all the way from City Section to kill for illegal slaughter. The nineteen other children on this bus with me, who may be on their way to die as well. I keep thinking about Mortimer, Sebastian, and even Alvira. I see an anxious Mortimer crying and walking in circles around the house looking for me. Wondering where I've gone and why I've left him. I can see him barking madly at the T.V. screen as some boy ten times my size, a Career, sticks me with a cruel jagged blade, and sliding its sharp careful tongues of rusted metal slowly from my chest to my stomach, twisting the knife as he goes along, smiling victoriously to himself at my pained cries and writhing body.

I try to get my mind off it by repeating mundane phrases to myself that usually involve things that annoy me. _My name, Cecil Andemis. I am annoyed when someone pronounces it see-sil, instead of seh-sil. I am annoyed when our cows moo all night. I am annoyed when my coworkers underestimate me. I am annoyed when people in general underestimate me._ My thoughts come to an end when the bus jolts forward and the peacekeepers are at our sides finally releasing us from these chains. They put this cream on our foreheads which rid our skin of the marks and contoured flesh left behind by the leather straps. We must look presentable for the Capitol, you know, especially for Caligula. He'll be so upset if his tributes are damaged _before_ he gets to see it happen in the arena. We're "escorted" ever so nicely by the Peacekeepers into the blinding summer sun. My eyes burn at the sudden reintroduction to light and it takes a lot of effort on my part to keep the tears at bay; I don't want anyone to think me weak for crying. Kids cry before the names are called all the time but I'm the youngest and want to be taken seriously. The Peacekeepers allow us seven minutes to hug and say goodbye to our parents before they line us up in order of youngest to oldest. As expected, I'm in the dead front of the line. We're instructed to leave the line once we see the area roped off for our age and gender group.

When my eyes are well again I finally take note of City Section. It's the smallest section in District 10 but the most magnificent. It isn't as big or as glamorous as the bits of the Capitol I've seen on television. In school we learned that City Section was built on the remains of a city called Chicago and the lands that surround it. Here is where they actually skin and cut the meat to be sent to District 9 for processing and then to the Capitol. I always wondered why the various jobs of District 10 aren't concentrated into one area. It seems like it'd be faster that way. But daddy told me that they eat a lot in the Capitol and that the meat goes to other places like District 11 so we need as many people working as we can get. No production line would be fast enough to supplement the amount needed so we spread it out across the District so we can get as much as possible to the Capitol without making a mess of everything, so we make sure it gets there in record time and record amounts, so we can always be sure there's enough for their ceaseless appetites.

I'm amazed that even though they have us working almost every day of the year that the Capitol is willing to allow a halt in production for the Reaping. Then again they're taking away the one day off we get for the Reaping, though a day of rest for us means someone else is taking overtime filling mine and my father's shifts, so I guess it all balances in the end. The Square is more than I ever thought it. It's more spectacular in person. The skyscrapers, shops, streets, and sidewalks corner a grassy knoll that in its center holds the Justice Building and the cul-de-sac that encircles it, we walk into the asphalt lane where we meet with the other, larger groups from Slaughter Section. Everything looks similar to a huge public outing where you would expect people to have picnic baskets and kites. But everyone wears a solemn face, a pained expression; a dead grass likeness sits on their muscles. No one is playing, no one is running gaily over the miniscule hills, eating, being merry, or flying kites. They're standing, waiting for Slaughter Section to get in line already so we can get the ball rolling. We walk down the lane; our line's longevity augmented greatly, me still in front. This is the longest walk I've taken in my whole life. The birds' wings flap in stop-motion. The shades of rolling winds across the grass move an inch per hour. Time just slows, blurring and melting into itself as one by one the line gets shorter.

I can feel eyes on me, cameramen in their insect-like shells, giving the Capitol a good view of the potential tributes. It's the pre-Reaping show they're broadcasting live right now. They usually only do it for 1, 2, and 4. The Capitol must be bored with those three this year. The thought that the Career Districts are becoming dull to the Capitol results in a look into a camera, a subtle smile, and wave to the audience. I wonder what they'll think of that. The cameramen love it and give a thumbs up, so it must be receiving a good reaction. The other kids aren't too thrilled about it, however. After walking through the thickness that fills the air and slows the passage of time, I veer off to the right where the twelve year-old girls are roped off. The very second the last girl is in place Mayor Farland's microphone beats on.

"Good morning, District 10. Now that all four sections are here we can begin. I, as mayor of District 10, will now begin the ceremony. Before I do the obligatory reading of the Treaty of Treason I would like to say how wonderful it is to see the people of City Section, Breeding Section, Milking Section, and Slaughter Section condensed here before me in memorial to those lives lost for the Capitol so long ago. This is a time of forgiveness and a time of redemption, so we should all be so thankful that the Capitol allowed our District to strive for fifty two years, unlike District 13,so…let us hope for another," she kind of goes silent then and the moment feels a bit awkward. Completely pointless. "Um, without further ado let's begin! Oh, and Happy Hunger Games!" It's not hard to tell she hates all this, that she hates what she's saying, but the poor lady grins and bears it anyway. Not even the mayor has many options. She starts to read the Treaty of Treason which was written in an ancient vernacular that's hard to understand due to its elaborate language and unconventional writing style that no way matches the contemporary literary standards. I scope the audience, the twelve year-olds aren't very impressive as usual, just a bunch of fidgety little kids. I can tell which ones have extra slips in the bowls and which ones don't. The others can tell I don't have a lot in there. I'm one of the biggest in weight and height among them. After a while I take to twiddling my thumbs, playing with my bracelet, balling my dress in fists and then releasing it back onto my waist. I can't stop tapping my foot, making myself look as though I were a mother ready to scold my misbehaved child. The tension builds as Mayor Farland goes on and on about that fucking idiotic rebellion. I can almost gamble my life on the prospect of Panem being damned decent before the Dark Days.

It's over now. She's done. I'm not the only one who's been keeping busy. The whole audience looks up from their various quirky activities (nail biting, finger strumming, arm flinging) and up at Mayor Farland. She's flushed with embarrassment.

"Well then, now with that done we can move onto the calling of the names. As Mayor of District 10, it is my greatest and most noble honor of introducing to you, the District 10 escort, the illustrious, the wonderful, and the laudable, Caligula Allabritès!" She claps as the doors to the Justice Building open up and let him out. It's like watching a great Leviathan shuffle out of its chambers, ready to consume an unwilling victim. Looking at him I come to realize what the phrase "staring death in the face" truly means. Fear, anguish, apprehension, daunting, and seeping of blood and of rot. There's a big ocean theme going on with his outfit which I credit to the victory of District 4 last year. The Capitol sometimes likes to base the fashions of the year off of the most recent winning District's industry or something the victor wore or did during the Games like their token, but only if it was a really good Hunger Games. Last year was really exciting for them, I guess. District 10 has won a whopping four times, which is a lot compared to other Districts, so the Capitol has willing worn cow print and pig skins before. I would've killed myself, personally.

He's really ugly in my opinion. A pathetic fifty-four year-old man using plastic surgery to look twenty-one. His peach skin has been pulled so far back on his face that there are even little stretch marks on his high cheeks and forehead. If he smiles any wider it'll rip. He wears this outrageous sea green and turquoise wig on his head that has been gelled and brushed a good foot over his head and brushed downward to resemble a wave in mid-tumble cresting on the sea. His doughy body is hidden by an open dark purple frock coat which has these little sea foam printings protruding outward. Despite his physique his five feet ten inch body is strong, he was a probably a wrestler in his youth. But his sea green eyeshadow which darkens his navy blue eyes transform him into a sissy boy in my head. If he ditched the frock coat and wig; the suede, light green button down shirt, turquoise velvet tie and turquoise pants tucked tightly into matching boots of a darker shade may pass for a normal person's attire. The part of the ensemble that chokes me the most is the big starfish wriggling its tendrils slowly and horrifyingly on his lapel. It's like a worm in water, disgusting. I picture it strangling me until asphyxiation in my sleep while on the train. Everything about Caligula is superficial and scary. How can they expect us to simply put our trust into this man who is notorious in District 10 for his force and over-zealous disciplinarian methods of handling his tributes? I've heard he's known to have had hit a few in his day. The thought makes me curl into myself a little.

"Good moooooorning, District 10! It's a beautiful day for a Reaping, don't you agree? As always it's great to come here every year to select a tribute for my favorite program, the Hunger Games. As you may notice ocean-themed dress is on the rage in the Capitol, so let's make cow print next year's biggest trend, non? There's a winner in every group of tributes and one of you better be it. I'll make sure of that, mind you. Oh, listen to me go on and on and on like this when everyone back home is just _dying_ for me to call the names, as I am sure you are. So, without more delay it is now time to select the tributes who will be representing District 10 in the 52nd Annual Hunger Games." His voice booms across the empty space rattling the atoms in a shockwave.

"Ladies first," This is it. The moment I've been waiting for since they called my name at the Sectional Reaping, the traditional "ladies first" I've been anxious to hear for months. He goes over to the bowl which contains the names of the 40,000 girls who have come from all over District 10 for this. He stalls, ambles rather than hurries, waits a few minutes before actually placing his hand inside. He waves it on the tops of the folded slips, allowing his finger tips to caress the supple paper, and then he decides to shake it up a little. To shake up the odds a little more, he says, to confuse fate. This fucking asshole is really asking for a beating.

"Huh, you know what? Making the ladies go first has been done so many times it's gotten to the point where the whole charade is uninteresting. Let's break the social stigma and pick the boy first, instead!" Bull fuck! I can't believe him right now, he actually has the nerve to put us all through all that suspense just so he could pull a bitch move like that. It's unorthodox, unprofessional, abysmal, and reprehensible in every single sense. I want so much to hurt him. To go on and bite his throat, tear out his Adam's apple, and chew it live like a rabid dog. Then I'd take that starfish and shove it deep into the hole I've made until my hand pops out on the other side of his neck. He would fall dead at my feet as his blood pools all over the metal veranda of the Justice Building; I would kick his head in that moment for staining my sandals with his fluids. And if he dare spill blood on my lovely dress then I'd have to continue to defile and mutilate his corpse until he's nothing more than a hunk of meat sweating and dripping the rubicund liquid we need and fear so much. Then, what I would then, the thing I would do next right after that is sendoff that meat to be cooked and eaten in the Capitol and when some dolled up idiot finds out they're a cannibal I'll smile contently.

I'm fuming as he plays the same dumb game again with the boys. Then he finally cops a slip like a Venus flytrap does to some poor unsuspecting insect. He unravels it with such excitement he may well rip the paper in pieces, but he's doing it to build up more suspense, really. Eventually he does go on to call the name.

"Drake Alivera." He repeats the name once more for emphasis until he angrily screams the name again when the boy doesn't come up. A fear stricken eighteen year-old walks onto the lane and makes the death walk to the Justice Building. The walk he's making now makes mine seem diminutive and trivial. He doesn't have the District 10 look about him which is strange yet it's a beautiful strange, he must have many girls vying for his attention. His hair is a mussy sandy tone rather than straight-laced and black. What stands out about him most are the green eyes. His skin matches our caramel tone, though. Everyone watches him take the walk of death and I wonder about his genetics. I've heard about children like him. My father said that sometimes traits that have been dormant in a family for generations come out and mix up the gene pool. Or the more gruesome story, which consists of some man or woman being raped by a Peacekeeper or a visiting government official. Rapes happen often in District 10, I don't know why, but they do. My own father was raped by a Peacekeeper man once, but it is rare that they result in a child. He's the result of a rape, alright. The signs my father told me about are there. The most noticeable being his physical traits. The others are present also. Usually, when a female Peacekeeper gets pregnant by a district man she either drops the child his way or takes it to the community home. If the district parent is a woman she usually keeps the babe but abuses it to no end, trying to push the awful memory related to it away. He has bruises on his body that suggest such abuse, by whom, I am not sure, but I guess it can be considered tragic or dismal.

Caligula is telling him to hurry up and he complies graciously. He's lanky and tall but his clothes don't hide his muscle definition well, he's strong, a runner most likely. The scars on his hands suggest a City Section native. He's everything a potential victor should be. When he's on "stage" Caligula is beaming, pleased with such a fine specimen of a tribute; attractive, robust, and obedient. He can work with this one, he's thinking. The crowd is murmuring as they often do, commenting on Drake. Then they fall silent when we hear someone screaming at the top of their lungs, saying something that has never been said in District 10 history.

"Stop! Stop! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" The whole world is looking dead on at this boy roped in with the seventeen year-olds. He's a full blood District 10 citizen, all right, he's a god. The most handsome person I've ever seen in my entire life is literally running to the stage, as though if he doesn't get there in time they'll take Drake instead. His look is frantic and scared, tired and wounded. He walks the steps and even sweaty and panting he's still the most beautiful thing I've seen. He's stronger than Drake, more beautiful than Drake, more likeable than Drake already. Simply being from District 10 and volunteering as excitedly as he did make him an instant favorite. This boy is going to be a winner in the Capitol. Caligula sends Drake away in the speed he beckoned him, nearly pushing him down the steps. I'm afraid Caligula's skin really will rip with the smile he has on now.

"A volunteer? Oh, yes, a volunteer. We have a volunteer? Yes, indeed, we do, we really, really do, we have a volunteer," He yells so loudly and with so much verve that the microphone makes this sound which stabs my ears and everyone else's. "Our volunteer must have a name. What's your name, young man, everyone in the Capitol must be itching to know."

"My name is Roger. Roger Vega." He manages to conjure this sensual purr through his panting breath. His face changes from horrified to sexy in seconds. His last name suggest he isn't related to Drake so now he's even more popular, the only people who usually volunteer who are not from Districts 1, 2, and 4 are usually relatives of the original name. This boy had no reason to volunteer for Drake so that means he's determined, he's going to play to win. Caligula is just raving about this boy. Handing out compliment after compliment until Roger says something about having to kiss and grope him a little if he goes on, which shocks the socks off of Allabritès and the audience. Trying to direct the attention away from him Caligula decides it's time to call the girl tribute, for real. He's in a rush to do it, anxious to make Roger's statement a forgotten memory. He grabs a slip and nearly tears it. My heart is beating, my ears fall deaf, my palms break out into a sweat, I'm about to hyperventilate, and my legs go knobby and twitchy.

"Here it is, Carmela Rodrigo," Thank god, I'm safe. I'm pure elation right now. If you were to bottle up my emotions right now you'd get a sparkling gentle orange sunset. There's a long pause, though, what's taking Carmela so long to get up there? Caligula is standing there, not yelling for Carmela so the rest of us can go home. Then he guffaws to no end. "Kidding, just kidding, everyone, there is no Carmela Rodrigo. I know, I know, I'm just _despicable_. Enough jokes, let me read the real name. Here it is, our lucky lady of the hour iiiiiiis…Cecil Andemis!" That son of a bitch. He mispronounced my name.


	2. Chapter 2-Paradise Lost

**AN: I should take this opportunity to introduce myself since I failed to do so in the first chapter. I'm sunflowerfields5 but for all intents and purposes call me "Jed". I just wanted to say hey, I doubt anyone will read this but I feel an introduction is necessary. Anyway, unlikely person reading this, I apologize for the length of the first chapter but you know, I felt it was imperative to the plot and whatnot. The length of chapter two is...better but still ridiculous. Expect the rest to be shorter, though. Also, I'm not quite sure about the rating but for right now it will be rated T, however, it can change, depends on what I decide to do. And I'll try, key word TRY, to update this on a bi-weekly basis. Okay, without further ado, on with the story! ~Jed **

When the initial anger of his mistake subsides after a split two seconds the fire in my heart is stunned into ice. I'm breathless; the clamminess of my skin begins to overtake my senses as the sun melts every cell in my body. I'm on fire, the sensation tingles all throughout me causing quickness in breath, a ceaseless itch erecting each hair on my body; a static shock nearly freezes my pulse and kills me, and a dull ache slowly consumes me in goosflesh. A girl standing next to me gives a slight tug of my skirt, urging me onto the stage with Caligula, I'm tempted to punch her but she's only trying to help me, it seems. With Roger as my partner I'll have to do all I can to get Caligula's good side in my clutches. I take one tensioned step forward and then another. Every move I make is lighting as I take the stage. I'm on the hot asphalt which radiates its heat onto the tops of my toes, I want to run but a wall of Peacekeepers will swallow me before I even have a chance, besides, I'll only appear weak if I try. It's a quick walk to the stage and Caligula is beckoning to me with his purple and gold nailed fingers. Snakes grab my hand and pull me on to the hot metal and I begin to dizzy a little from the humidity.

When I'm turned around, my shoulders engulfed by the purple-gold serpents, I watch the sea of people before me, their eyes saucers of concern and pity. Caligula says something but I can't hear him. The fever heat of terror drums against my ears blocking out all vibrations, cutting off my hearing. The look on my face is slight; you'd have to look rather close to notice my horror. I've never had nightmares, never, however, the crowd takes on a slanted silhouette, a blurry vision, and fire is sweltering on the grass and unto the stage licking at my feet. My sandals are aflame; my dress is sparking and smoking. I am being choked by the smoke as it leeches the oxygen straight from my lungs; I feel faint and get weak in the knees until I begin to fall a little.

A soft voice whispers into my ear, snaking into my ear drums and sickling through leaving a sick slimy back wash "Oh, careful now, m'dear. Don't fall, I've got you, come up." It's Caligula whispering to me. I regain my footing and stand straight and giggle a little. I want this moment to look light and fun, as though I weren't about to faint out of fear but from the heat. I giggle out an apology, blame it on the heat, and let go of Caligula's arm. He laughs it off, too, makes a joke or two at my expense. I play along until he brings the show back to the Reaping.

"Looks like we've got a funny one this year. Caesar Flickerman is going to have a ball with you, I bet. We've only _just_ announced the tributes and I'm already dying with the anticipation of it all. Well, there's plenty time to dwell on the future later. I've got to get you two charming youngsters to the Capitol. The sooner we get there, the sooner the Games can begin!" He says, almost catatonic with bliss. He rapturously announces our names once more to the audience and makes his signature "May the odds be ever in your favor!" which District 10 knows as code for applause. He makes the Reaping audience of 10 do it every year and if we don't, well, he gets antsy to say the least. Caligula is not afraid to have a temper tantrum on live television, he's done it before.

It's silent this year, though, they don't want to clap, cheer, or whoop for him this year. They refuse to be his trained dogs any longer. I don't quite understand why they're resisting, knowing fully well the punishment that waits if they don't. A Peacekeeper nudges someone with the butt of his rifle, as if to say clap, and so she does. It's a pathetic sound that comes from her but soon another joins her, then another, then another, until everyone is applauding weakly. Caligula usually expects a huge uproar, not this year, though. Together they couldn't even be heard from ten feet away, let alone a mile. Caligula looks as if he's about to collapses in upon himself and ignite Hell but he just pushes Roger and I forward with a curt "shakes hands" as he glares into the distance. We turn face to face and he reaches out first, a big grin on his supple pink lips. A red hotness flushes my cheeks as I look up into his alluring eyes. They're such an intense light brown they're almost beige. As not to give the impression of being inimical I smile warmly back to him. I grab his strong yet velvety and sensuous hands and shake vigorously with good cheer. _Keep leading them on, Cecil. Keep leading __**him**_ on.

We are then swarmed by Peacekeepers and ushered into the Justice Building so we can make our final goodbyes to our families and friends. Not many people will be coming to see me. As I am directed down a hall into a dimly-lit, brown, circular room I try to observe the building as closely as I can. I've never been to the Justice Building before, I heard it was nice, may as well get a good gander before I die. We get one hour to say goodbye to whoever came with us on the bus and nothing more. I guess the whole hour belongs to my father since he was the only one allowed to go with me today. I kind of wish Billy and Mrs. Habershend could have come along, I really do. I would tell Mrs. Habershend to keep an eye on daddy, make sure he's eating and going to work, whip him into shape if he's not. I would tell Billy to spend every moment of the Games sitting with my father, holding onto his strong muscles every single second as he watches, letting him sob or hide in his chest when something happens, if what's on the screen is too much for him. I would need him to find the strength my father had loss. If he loses it, that is. I jump up and down in my chair a little, anxious to get these goodbyes off my lips. It becomes unbearable until I come to the conclusion that both of them would do these things for me anyway. Mrs. Habershend will watch over him, Billy will comfort him, and Mortimer will find a way to help, too. My sense of family up until this point has been limited, admittedly. I always thought my family included my father and my father alone, that family only pertained to mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and the like. I was wrong. Genetics aren't what makes a family, what makes a family is love, affection, and caring. I'm not one to be sentimental and corny like that but it's true. It's not until the corny stuff becomes a lie that you truly appreciate it.

My family will come together now; it will solidify and prosper with these people. I may not see it, but I feel a certain solace in the thought. I can imagine Billy and daddy adopting a child from the Community Home, Mrs. Habershend remarrying a nice man who can herd her cattle in my place, Mortimer playing with his puppies, Sebastian suckling her calf, and even Alvira coming back to mourn me and then galloping off back to her new rich family. I rub the cold wood with my index as I mull it over. Yeah, life could go on without me. It could…

It really could go on and that infuriates me. It's not fair at all that everyone can be happy except me. That I have to go die for someone else's sins because the Capitol says I must. That everyone and their freaking grandmother can laugh, cry, run, breathe, and live while I wade on Death's shallows. Before I can get really mad the door opens and my father walks in, two Peacekeepers flanked on either side of him. I run into his open arms and bury my face into his stomach, feeling the hardness and ridges of his abs. One, two, three, four, five, and six, I count, he has those six pack abs he always said he would get. He used tell me every day about the progress he was making in his muscle building but I never really paid attention. Oh, how I wish I did, how I wish I accepted his offers of quality time every time he made them, how I wish I could spend one more hour, one more day with him. If I could have just one more day with him and everyone I would give up most everything I had. I can feel the tears burning underneath my eyelids. I push them back down, not wanting to show the cameras I've been crying. The chubby, twelve year-old girl from District 10 must not be made weaker by her tears. Sponsors don't support criers, they support fighters. I sit down, as does daddy, and we stare at each other for a long time.

"Shouldn't one of us say something?" I ask in a weak voice, sounding like the little girl I'm supposed to be. He responds with silence. Then opens his mouth, closes it again, opens it again, and then shuts it. He doesn't know what to say, he can't find the words, the promises, or the lies. Until he can only speak the present.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby girl. I was 'sposed to protect you, no matter what. I was 'sposed to keep you safe, now look where you're headed. Those bastards, I'll kill 'em. I swear I'll kill 'em. How could they? How could they take away the only thing a father can do for his daughter in this world? I was supposed to see you grow up, become a woman, get married, and give me grandchildren that I could love and spoil rotten just so I could drive your stupid hubby crazy when I send them home. I was supposed to make sure you live! I'm sorry, baby girl. If I could take your place, I would. If I could take some other punishment in your stead like I did Mortimer, I would. If-"

"That's enough, daddy," I cut him off, "Listen, wallowing in your pity and mine won't do anything for either of us. I need you to buck up like the man I know you are. I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, you hear me? I'm the child and you're the parent so I shouldn't be the one saying this. This is what I want you to do, think of this as my final will and testament. You_ will not_ harm anyone, let alone kill 'em. I know the next few weeks are gonna be tough, but they'll be tough on me, too. I can't spend my time in the Capitol and in the arena thinking about how you're doing or what you're doing. I need to be at my best and I won't if I'm thinking about you all the day. Promise me you'll take care of yourself, promise you'll stay out of trouble if not for yourself but for me." I say all this in a paced and careful tone that quickens as I go. There's a silence as we stare into each other's eyes, trying to say everything we want through mere brown gazes.

"I promise," he quivers, "If that's what you want, then fine. I promise." His lips tremble a little but steel none the less. He's back; I think I can trust him to keep safe until this is over. Until I am gone and buried beneath the pastures, mutating and emanating into leaves of grass, into new life. For the remainder we sit, reminiscing here and there, commenting on the room, talking about people back home, but mostly we're silent, unsure of what to say, simply holding my hand in his. Centuries pass, stars die and live, galaxies collapse, black holes feed, and universes end over our heads as we wait for our golden days to pass with the seconds. The door opens and the Peacekeepers come to escort my father out, his grip tightens on mine and in it the shock of goodbye surges thunder. Chain-linked hands break to the hardwood floors with a clatter and he's gone, mouthing an invention of farewell on his tender lips. I feel empty inside, no longer will those solid arms or strong hands hold me in safety. I'm on my own. I sit for a spell longer, then they call me, it's time to head for the train station. Peacekeepers surround me in a semi-circle as not to hinder the cameras and reporters. Flashes of unnatural daylight shoot my face in blinding hot white as I descend the stairs of the Justice Building, a car parked sideways in the cul-de-sac's round end beckons with its gloss black doors. My District counterpart, Roger Vega, is zipping up and down like a hummingbird in flight attempting to seek out District 10 through the black tinted windows.

"It's no use," I say, "You'll never be able to see." My voice's robotic monotone hunches him in defeat, his resolve gone. I stare at the blackness before me and the car starts moving. It's like riding the bus but not as bumpy or cramped. The seats are made of fine leather and the armrests threaten naught. I play with the charms on my bracelet, the sheep in particular. I could never kill a sheep; I've made a point of refusing to murder any sheep that came my way in the slaughterhouse. At first it was met with much punishment and pay deductions. I was whipped once for it but I took those twelve lashes with dignity. Hmph, they were so soft, they went easy on me because I was only ten. I could've taken more. I hate when I'm underestimated. I wonder if there'll be any sheep in the Games, not literally, of course, but kids who'll remind me of the animal. Kids so innocent and unobtrusive that I can't bring myself to kill them because the wooly fluff would take place of the hair matted in congealed blood, I doubt it, though. Humans are among those animals of which I hold in low regard. As long as I can remember who they are, how they want to kill me, how they want to obstruct my survival, I can take them down easily. The knife will never leave my hand in such an instance. The car stops as we pull into the station, the doors beside me flings open and I'm flung into a battle field pulsing with camera beams. Caligula and District 10's two remaining victors, who were completely silent at the Reaping up to the point of invisbility, are at my side immediately and we're soon pacing quickly through the crowd, Caligula's smiling and waving to the insect shells, which inspire me to do the same.

I'm just beaming and overjoyed with attention as I walk down the velvet rope lined aisle; Caligula takes notice and gives me a wink, pleased with my performance. Roger, however, acts in the manner of our now mentors. He just sticks his hands in his pockets, keeps his head low, and comes up now and then to give a shy, boyishly cute smile which makes some reporters swoon a bit. I have an itch to roll my eyes but that would mean breaking my little charade of innocent cuteness. Something tells me I'm going to be the only heterosexual the next couple of days because my mentors, both males, are holding hands and Roger has blown a kiss or two towards some of the male reporters. No one on this team is making a point of hiding their sexual orientation, except maybe Caligula, which makes me want to cringe. Hopefully sponsors will like such boldness and sign up with District 10 this year. When we finally board the train it takes me a minute to actually take heed of where I'll be staying for a few hours. It's the most luxurious place I've ever laid eyes on. The chandeliers are made of pure rubies and diamonds which dye the room in a succulent red and white fragmented mixture of light. The floors are decked in debonair black carpeting that compliments the lighting scheme and white wallpaper nicely. The tables are polished and wooden draped in soft and elegant table cloths the color of dying trees that exude aristocracy and grace, laden with decadent dishes of all sorts and varieties. My mouth waters at the moist roasted chicken, glistening with a hearty layer of fatting sweet grease stuffed to bursting with peppered cornbread and sausage sprinkled in emerald green herbs that offset the brown of the meat with an awe-inspiring, appetizing rich golden brown color. Pork rolls stuffed with teal and turquoise spicy and sour jellies wait patiently on a large platter, begging to be taken gently between thumb and index finger to make a daring journey into your distressed and hungry mouth, your lips quivering in anticipation, anxious to be coated in the slick fat and indulgent thickness of the filling.

My hand reaches tentatively for a slice of cherry pie in a beautiful yellow glaze, the serving knife's handle just within reach when a stinging sensation takes my nerves astride. My hand lurches back and Caligula looks disapprovingly down at me, his lips pursed in cold anger.

"It is not yet dinner time, m'dear. We eat together and no one may dine before the others. First you must shower, dress in proper evening attire, speak with your mentors, and _then_ you may eat with the rest of us. I see I will have a _lot_ to teach you about proper manners and etiquette." He dismisses me with a fussy huff and I am sent to my room to get ready. As I am guided to my new quarters by a Capitol attendant I look back at the table, disappointed and sad that I have to wait so long to take a stab at that roasted pork shoulder, the delicious, moist fat below the crunchy and nummy pork-skin shell calling to me from afar. My bedroom is equal in extravagance as the dining and living areas outside the door and around the corner. The light fixtures dangle illuminating the room in a soft golden glow, interconnected globes like dulling suns. A queen sized bed masked by a sunflower yellow comforter and dark brown pillows is placed at the head of the room. The carpeting matches the one outside and tempts me to just roll on it for a little. The wood paneled walls are black and streaked with ivory curves and curls and are cold and smooth to the touch. It's relaxing and tranquil yet over the top and lavish. The bathroom has much the same color scheme except the wooden walls are replaced with gold tiles. The floor is granite and the bathtub is ebony. The shower doors are made from a crystalline black substance framed with platinum. The inside is silver and carbon and inviting. Where the knobs that control water temperature should be is a large panel with all sorts of bright buttons. The opulent arrangements are overwhelming so I decide to lie down for minute to let it all sink in.

It's all so hard to believe, just this morning I woke up to a cracked, moldy ceiling in a ranch house as old as Panem itself and now here I am, now tribute for the Hunger Games, in what is probably the most grand and unimaginable place I've ever been. It all makes me furious. I've spent my whole life living in a dying wood house with a shaky foundation and questionable plumbing. To take a warm bath I'd have to run up and down the stairs for hours filling the tub with water that's been heating in a hearth instead of the stove that is of no use since gas is a rare find. There are all types of soaps and shampoos here yet I've spent my life being scrubbed with washcloth containing a mixture of sand, rock, rosemary, and water. It's despicable, how can the Capitol live such easy lives when we in the Districts fight for survival every day? My struggle isn't much compared to the struggles of those in places like District 12 or District 11 but I, as a citizen of District 10, know the suffering of my people is an even match for theirs. That we three outlier Districts are abused most of all. That the Districts in general are abused should not be a commonly known fact in what is meant to be a functioning government. I want to tear this room to pieces and bust down the walls around me, unscrew the doors from their hinges, and throw down everything given to me, expose the lies to light, to what they are, to what evils they represent. But such an idea is preposterous and impractical. I should enjoy what I can while I can, eat my fill before it's emptied in the arena, praise the Capitol divine to save my hide in the Games, and stop thinking the thoughts that lead to useless rebel births and uprisings. In all the time I've spent wandering and thinking about an hour has past, only two hours until dinnertime. I strip my clothes, unwrap my bracelet, and untie the ribbon that conservatively binds my hair. I step into the shower and stare blankly at the metal panel of buttons.

_How the hell do I use this?_ I think frantically. I decide to learn through trial and error and reach out slowly for this one button that exudes a soft orange glow. Something clicks when I press against it and suddenly I'm pelted with sharp spikes of rose water. The showerhead pulses, shooting droplets like bullets with bee venom stings. I start to smash down on the panel and get all kinds of crazy poured upon me. Pink foam shoots me in the eye, hot air is blown from all sides, a waterfall of soap water thrashes upon my head, squirts of perfume fly from hidden spouts, and the shower is alternating between what seems like a million different cycles, settings, and pressures. I scream and scramble expecting a handle to give me a vice. I get up only to have my foot slide from under me; water is sprayed into my mouth which brings a hacking cough. Finally an attendant comes to my rescue and adjusts the settings for me so that I am left with a steady, regular, and warm flow of water. She tells me there are towels on the rack in case I don't feel like using the driers, shows me which buttons dispense what soap, which one turns it all off, and then leaves me to my own devices. I spend much longer than I should in here, vigorously scrubbing the gooey gunk that's stuck to my hair and body. I must have six different scents rotting off my skin now and decide to turn it off. I step out, dry, wrap one towel around my clean frame and another around my head, shuffle slowly to the bedroom, and fall with a thud on top of the comforter.

My eyes flutter between sleep and wake, exhaustion fighting a battle with famine. My paradise lost.


	3. Chapter 3-Grime and Grandeur

**A/N: Hello, it's Jed, obviously. I would've updated this sooner but my area (and my wifi) has suffered the tyranny of Hurricane Sandy. Anyway, sorry for the length of the previous 2 but I wrote those awhile back so I was too lazy to edit them and cut them down. I'm taking a break from Cecil in this one and will be concentrating on one of her future allies. I'm not sure if I'll do this regularly yet. Also, thanks a million times over to theseaisblue for being the first to review my story, your feedback is graciously appreciated and your encouragement to update this train wreck in the making inspired me to try to upload right away! I was really expecting to get flamed BIG TIME but I was pleasantly surprised. Anyway, let's meet Kami, shall we? **

Smoke flutters into the room, pitter-pattering on my lips, caressing my lungs, _burning _my lungs, and forces my body into a fit. I jump up from my soft silk sheets and begin to huss and puff the tainted air from my system. Damn it, I told my mother to keep the window shut! She always comes into my room at night, complaining about how stuffiness, and opens the window when I've told her insistently that the smoke stack from dad's factory bellows its remains every morning and sieves it into my room, leaving a nasty layer of muck-black soot on my belongings. I slam down the metal frame of the window and look around. I've taken to decorating my room in dark colors to hide the ash but find it is no solution to my problem. I rub my hands across the suede maroon chair that sits beside my desk. The ash crumples in my touch, the grainy texture spreading into smoothness. The fabric is ruined; the maroon stained a crimsoned darkness, the suede soiled forever. I brush my hands through my hair. Chestnut brown, straight, shoulder length, bangs hanging dully over my forehead, slight swish to the left.

I sigh and blow up a loose strand, keeping it afloat. I feel like the smoke stack, keeping everything afloat no matter the costs. I look around, not even my ebony sheets were spared from the ash. The darkness of my bedspread only accentuated the light gray of the soot, defining it, highlighting it, just wonderful. I'm not in the mood for this today, I've the Reaping to contend with and a sullied room is the last of my wants. There's a note on my dresser from my parents, also covered in haze. A small gray square neglecting me, indifferent to me, just like them. I pick the paper and dust it off, little round pixies flowing around me, wrapping their tendrils on my night clothes. Though some of the words remain obtruded by clouded handprints, it read:

_Dearest Kami, we're so disappointed that we can't attend the District 3 Reaping with you today! But your father and I are vehemently occupied with work, even today! Our most illustrious nation is in dire need of our services and we shall not ignore their beck and call lest it reflect badly on our character and undying patriotism! I left your Reaping clothes in the washroom, I would've left it in your bedroom but it was covered in ghastly ash, do remember to close your window, sweetie! Anyway, I hope to see our little girl on the screen today. Sincerely, Mom and Dad. _

I muffled the text in my palm, the soot cracking free the words they contained, but were too late for I had already thrown them into the garbage, tumbleweed to fly across the fields of my now volcanic world. They've missed the Reaping every year since I was thirteen, so I'm over it by now. They're two of District 3's top scientists; whenever the Capitol has some menial problem or another, my parents are first to find a gadget to fix it. They've become so invaluable to the citizens there that they get paid substantially for their services. And because of this I've learned not to rely on them too much, but I can't help the frustration that prods my mind. I push down, pull the stick from the hand that guides it and ignore it. I look to the clock, the mechanical silver face glinting at me with indifference. The Reaping starts at twelve. Two hours to get ready, more than enough time. The steel door in its moderned glory opens for me, sprawling the grandeur of my home before me in a cultured slew. Pearlescent floors and sea-foam walls make up the expanse of our home. Sleek black drawers and tables line the walls offsetting the brightness of the interior along with portraits, photos, and artwork framed and contained elegantly by night-time waves. I gently spread my hand on the frames, smooth and cold, the lacquer absolute perfection.

I remove myself from the wonders of the hallway and enter the washroom where my Reaping outfit waits tentatively on a chair. Its simplistic grace is a rarity in my parent's wardrobe; they prefer to deck me in extravagant gowns and lavish eveningwear, all to my chagrin. I prefer blue jeans, a tool belt, boots, goggles, work gloves, and an old t-shirt I can part with. I'm a very hands-on girl who'd rather pamper a machine than myself; getting greased up and caked in oil, surrounded by the scent of sweat, diesel, and machine parts, none of it ever gets monotonous for me. I prefer the grime to the glamor, it's just my way. The mechanical to the conceptual. My parents, however, are "idea people" they just come up with concepts, work out all the kinks, and come up with the diagrams then have the mechanics and engineers actually put it to practice. Not really my scene but they've diligently trained me in their professions despite my disinterested protests.

My parents allow me to use their secret garage for my tinkering on the condition that I do as they say. Attend big parties and fanciful galas, sit in on board meetings, associate with workers, and just all-in-all be the trophy daughter they've always wished for. A cherished puppet to boost their plateauing careers. I put on the clothes left for me which consists of a white blouse with ocean-waved ruffles on the front and puffy sleeves, black mini-skirt (which I abhor), and black heels that wrap around my ankles like gauze. I look at myself in the mirror. Slender figure overall, not much in the way of cleavage, hips alright, ovular unimposing face made decent with full lips and a button nose, tiny brown eyes prone to squinting, and an average build no one would give a second glance to; a totally normal girl who can't live up to the excessive pulchritude of her parents.

"_Oh, it doesn't matter what you wear, just as long as you are there. So come on, every guy grab a girl, everywhere around the world. There'll be dancin'. They're dancin' in the street." _I hum an old tune to myself as I stand on the street with the other sixteens, most certainly not dancing. Who the hell would want to dance at a time like this? "Would you shut up? You're embarrassing yourself." My friend, Kareen, says in jest. I'm not quite sure why she bothers with me since she's never wanted for attention, the last thing anyone ever gives me, but she's good company, really keeps the sarcasm and bitchiness flowing. I give a mock laugh to satisfy the queen and stare back up at the stage, my eyes on the apparent Clarice Lémasón, District 3's new escort. "Is the Capitol running some new program where they remove at risk young women from the prostitution biz? Because a street corner is the only place I'd expect to find that hoe." Kareen nudges me, a loopy grin and crazed black eyes on her face, her urban accent writhing its way into her speech.

"Shut the fuck up, would you? She isn't that bad. She's an improvement compared to the old perv we used to have. He groped last year's female's breasts, for christ's sake, on camera too!" I reply, giddy with laughter at that fiasco then I remember how that girl killed herself in the arena, how she would rub her stomach nonstop, probably pregnant from him.

"That was terrible, wasn't it?"

"Very" I say and then Clarice is up at the podium, greeting the audience, and trying her best to keep her composure. She's a timid woman, so timid she can barely function on the stage. She's shaking like she's an engine revving up, ready for speed, but she manages. She seems amicable with the color green, lime specifically. It's obvious why anyone would accuse her of prostitution. Her body and face are overdone and overpaid. She's like a porcelain doll with her gigantic green eyes, round face, and thick lips dipped in a putrid green polish, you could almost liken her to a baby hooker. Big ass paired with chicken legs and tits that are too large for her narrow figure. The dress clings so loosely on her and I'm afraid she'll pay all our tickets to the cow show. I guess sea-themed clothing is haute couture in the Capitol right now, since her attire seems reminiscent of seaweed.

Without further delay, she totters to the boys' bowl, unsure how to manage such high heels. She picks at the slips with her metallic green nails like a bird, an almost itch-like quality to her rummaging. She eventually grabs a slip and trembles back to the microphone.

"Ou..our boy t-tribute is….um…Aaaaafttttton B-bbolts!" The woman has the most infuriating cowered stutter I've ever heard but I quickly dismiss it as I see Afton take the stage. I've seen him around; black hair, beady little eyes like a mouse, and ashen skin. A definite resident of District 3. Though, he isn't much and I imagine our female won't be worth much else, as usual. Clarice sputters a congratulations at Afton and she quickly moves on to the girls' bowl. I close my eyes, take Kareen's hand, and we whisper our prayers like we do every year, our fingers crossed. A rapid fire of K sounds comes from Clarice; Kareen grips me tighter, a corset for my fingers snugging me warmly. It can be either one of us now. Why won't this woman say it already? The heat radiating from the asphalt traps itself in my skirt, creating a furying furnace. The steel skyscrapers begin to guard and watch, giants of metal and glass peering their magnified solar rays upon me, sweat breaking through my pores. Clarice finally finds her voice and announces it loud and clear.

"Kami Veeeeersaillles! Our l-lucky girl is Kami Versailles!" My eyes shoot open, my hand falls to my side, Kareen is agape with fear for me, and a path is cleared. A road lined with the ashen skin characteristic to my district. I'm fucking screwed.

**End of Chapter 3! I tried my damnedest to make this one shorter so I hope it fares well in that respect. This one was more comical than the others, I will admit. Compared to one and two it's not the best in this series but hopefully it won't be the first of the worst. I feel as though I'm on glassy ground with this one. Anyway, unlikely reader, hope you enjoyed this installment of Snowfall, I sure didn't! And don't forget to review! ~Jed**


	4. Chapter 4-Dinner and a Show

** A/N: Despite the fact I have electricity once more this has become my only form of entertainment besides reading, TV, and masturbation. I would bitch more about my current predicament but Cecil keeps bugging me to start this chapter. **

Chapter 4: Dinner and a Show

The vibrations coming from the door berates my eardrums and forces my body into waking. Behind the portal waits for me the most horrid obscenities ever laid on my tiny ears, all courtesy of Caligula Allabritès. I've never heard such language, not even from myself, and yet this man, this pinnacle of etiquette and ill-tempered grace to all of District 10 is cursing like a sailor.

"Shut up, shut up, and just shut the hell up! I'm getting up now!" I throw all my irate emphasis on the word now, trying to out-shout him. My greatest talent is smoking silence so I'm easily bested by Caligula. With frustration in my flow I remove myself from the comfy nest of brown and gold linen that has tied itself mercifully to my form, becoming an undulating mass of chocolate and sunbeams. I can't help but shuffle my feet along the supple carpeting and giggle as the fabric tickles my soles. Little entertainments like this have kept me sane in the past, so may as well keep to them.

But just as I'm beginning to enjoy my marvelous suite, Caligula once more disturbs my solace, a crimson day sparrow piercing its bloodied bleak into my sacred night. I quickly remove my Reaping outfit and replace it with a like garment, rushing out the door as I pull the cloth down my frame. Running to the dining cart I see my mentors and partner have already settled for dinner, patiently expecting my arrival, hands fervently placed on their utensils. Caligula trots along, a vigilant warden, hands behind his back as though he was handling a whip, and he sits at the head, his hands a prism, elbows off the table, the master of manners.

I sit, my irascible countenance reddening the already blood spattered decorum of the cart, filling in every white spot of luminance in the room.

"Nice of you to join us, _Cecil_." Caligula purposely mispronounces my name, every syllable seething with discontent. I've heard stories that Caligula prefers to be in control, that he holds all power in his hands in relation to his tributes or he will not offer his assistance at all. There have been countless tales of abuse, verbal, mental, and physical, a never ending jumble of fighting trigger phrases from the man and all those under him. Yet, in all his years as escort, he's always managed to bring one presentable tribute to the public, a plump, fatty grub for all the starving and raving lunatic birds in the Capitol to eat up whole.

"I told you before; it's _seh-cil, _not _see-cil_." I purse my lips and slit my eyes, I may look silly, like a child denied her candy, but I hold my ground.

"You shouldn't talk back to your elders, dear, it's a colossal breach in respect and manners." He says, commencing the meal with his last word by stabbing a knife into the pig that sits on the table. Everyone begins to be served by the attendants, getting a little of everything unless they decline. I allow my plate to be piled on, not about to let such a feast pass me by. Everyone begins to stare at me; Caligula could kill me with his looks. I survey my dining partners, making eye contact with all of them, wondering of my apparent stigma.

"Caligula, Harrison, and I believe you shouldn't eat so much, Cecil." The more gruff and rugged of my mentors states mildly, almost disinterested. He's a burly guy, a "man's man" type, like my father. Six feet and seven inches of broad shouldered, muscle-fed power, the epitome of what a victor should be. Caramel skin, twenty five years of age, five o'clock shadow, diamond cut jaw, and menacing dark eyes, set deep into his skull. If you closed your eyes and pet any part of his body you'd probably think you were touching a cat's back.

"Why shouldn't I?" I ask, my rage seething in the grinding of my teeth.

"Cut that out, those ugly teeth of yours will be yellow little stubs by the time we get to the Capitol; honestly, does no one in your district brush their teeth? And to answer your question, we believe that you could afford to lose a few pounds, so your mentors and I have concocted a diet and exercise plan for you that should shed a few unsightly pounds from your rather…plump frame. The Capitol doesn't enjoy fat little bitches like you, you know." Caligula's tone verges on smug; his tight skin almost pulls back into a satisfied smile, he thinks his words have slammed me into my place, he's far from right.

"Caligula! You shouldn't say such things to children, it's bad for their self-esteem. Besides, she's not that big and stop lying, I didn't agree to that plan at all. If you ask me she shouldn't lose weight, it'll make the other tributes overlook her." Harrison comes to my defense, placing his hand on mine, which I quickly snatch back. Harrison came from a town near my own, a Slaughter Sector native. He's not scrawny, nor is he as hulking as his apparent husband. Only having won three years ago, he's about nineteen or twenty, his face is still that of a boy's, only little signs of adulthood poking through. With his swimmer's build, bright smooth face, happy exterior, straight black hair cut conservatively, tight almost provocative clothing, and dulcet looks and personality, most question how he has won the 49th games, myself included.

"I don't need your help, thanks. I can handle myself." I spit, a dirty look plastered wide on my cheeks, not wanting any kindness of his to overshadow my personality. As the tension builds all other players in this little theater become irrelevant. The stage lights begin to fade and maunder on Harrison, Rex, and Roger. The scene contorts and narrows, the audience slowly being drawn into an alternate scene, a scene where there is only Caligula and I, standing on either side of the barrel of a two-sided gun, both of us grasping a trigger.

"I dare you, say it again. Call me a fat little bitch again. Go ahead, I want you to." My voice has a sweetness that airs a sour taste, the stench of my aversion bittering the taste in a turtle-paced gooping. Caligula smiles, accepting the challenge. He runs his hand through that ridiculous wig of his, slightly disturbing the ocean's wave, it's carefully planned yet erratic undulations.

"I am a representative of our most illustrious Capitol; therefore, it is almost as though I am the master of this train which would make you all my guests. So, as your honored host who am I to deny my guest any request she may make, it would show poorly on me if I was to make such a mistake in etiquette. Well, here goes. You are a fat little bitch, Cecil. The paunch that shows through your dress is heinous and despicable. I have never met a little girl as _fucking fat_ as you in all my years as an escort. I hope your prep team decides to apply liposuction on that lard ass of yours, because the heavens know there is no way to transform this overweight, reprehensible monster into something presentable, into a victor, with only a few days of diet and exercise."

"'kay, a little more than I asked for but okay." I say under my breath before I leap onto the table, cartwheeling over the pig, pulling the knife from the finely browned hide of the pork, sticking a perfect landing, my back to Caligula. In a manner of seconds I twirl, the dining cart an almost ovular blur now, the shocked faces of the other "guests" becoming indiscernible stains on my sight. This whole new world of ruby and sterling silver is only disturbed by the faint interruptions of the diners and food.

I'm face to face with Caligula now, in threat I stretch my leg in front of me and slide it across the table, beautifully executing the destruction of the setting. The pig lies in deeper death on the ground, its head detached, a sign of the immediate future.

"Caligula, she's from Slaughter Sector, she knows how to cut a bitch!" Harrison is frantic, exclaiming wildly, the whole situation characterized by a kind of panicked hysteria. A perfect beauty, a magnificent farce, a worthy creation of my own doing.

I am floating now; a tight fleshy strap against my lower torso lifts me from the table. It's Roger, he has descended his authority upon what was going to be my blood-clotted sky, removing my wings, saving Caligula's soul. I flail about, my legs and arms immaterial, my screams most vociferous, the knife still a dangerous means.

Before he can pull me from the room, I throw the knife, watching it twirl and arc like a baton, congratulating it in my head when it successfully removes Caligula's wig from his apparent barren head. Caligula tries to come at me but is intercepted by Rex, Harrison desperately attempting to calm everyone. Roger walks into my room, and plops down onto the mattress, retaining his bouquet holdings of me, making the sunflower and seedling undulations return.

"Listen, I know he's difficult, I really do. I had a talk with him earlier, we were watching the other Reapings. He kept comparing me to the other tributes, the Careers especially. He made feel like pure shit, like I wasn't good enough, all the compliments he gave me on stage suddenly meant nothing. But, I think, he does it on purpose. To make us fight stronger, work harder, and to prepare our egos for the beating they're gonna get at training. Under him, District 10 comes out strong, because he doesn't relent, so we don't relent." What Roger says makes sense, they calm me down, understanding quenching all crimes of confusion. I guess, our little dinner and a show were pointless, but I did learn a lesson, most certainly, I will not relent, I will not relent in vexing Caligula at every step, I will not relent for a single soul. Not even myself.

I _will _win.

** A/N: Woot woot. I think the length of this one was much better and I don't think I had to sacrifice my usual style, either. There is nothing more satisfying than finishing what you feel is a good piece of work. Honestly though, I have no idea what the actual point of this chapter was. There wasn't much forwarding of the plot but then again, stories are about characters as well. And I think we got to know a little more about the characters in this one, if anything. The fun part is that this will be the first of many of Cecil's crazed and stark mad antics, man, I can't wait! Oh, and in other news, I will be writing a new story, though not any time soon. I just know that it'll be smutty at some parts, will also be in the "other tributes" category, and will feature a gay main character and will only be told from his POV. So, my non-existent readers, watch out for that one. Well, that's all I have to say for now. See you next chapter, my imaginary friends! ~Jed **


	5. Chapter 5-The Minotaur's Labyrinth

**A/N: And so it continues. The plot will most likely advance in this one, how, you ask? Well, don't, just know it shall, questions aren't good for you. They cause stress, anxiety, and confusion, proven fact. So hush, my curious fool, just hush. Anyway, enough of me being weird, on with the story. **

I'm jolted out of slumber, the train somehow jumping, as though it hit a snag, which makes no sense. The trains aren't actually attached to the tracks; they just provide a guiding rail for the machine. I step out of the room, my braided ponytails a frizz of disdain, my eyes darkened saucers, drool dried to the side of my mouth, I don't care much for mornings. I shuffle along into the dining cart for breakfast, it's as though my train-mates haven't left since last night. Everyone, even Caligula, is dressed in their pajamas, waiting to start breakfast. I grab a chair and look at the morning gloried feast before me.

Eggs, yokes almost bursting from the whites; bacon, crisp and still sizzling, fresh from the pan, the marbling is almost artistic, red meat and browned fat mold together into an elegant mesh. Hash browns, not too moist but not too dry, sit on my plate, the stringy mass an inviting welcome to the table. There's so much more, things I can't even name, let alone describe, and I am surrounded. I've been sent once more to gluttonous heaven and my stomach collapses within itself and spirals into an insidious beast.

Caligula, however, doesn't plan on letting me enjoy the meal, last night's fiasco still etched into his cold stare. He's dressed more conservatively today, he almost seems normal. He just wears a simple robe, a night shirt hidden plainly underneath, his bald scalp exposed to the elements, the sun glinting off his dome, an unexpected crystal ball.

"I'm not bald by nature, you know, but by design. Makes fashioning those wigs much easier." He explains, sipping his tea silently. He retains his ridiculous makeup and nothing can be done for that unnatural skin, though. Whatever outfit he decides on today will heavily feature the color pink, if his makeup is any good indication. What will he be today? A piece of coral, a starfish, maybe? I don't know nor do I care, Capitol couture has never been of much interest to me, just another sign of their excess. Why spend money on expensive clothing and jewelry when it can be used to fill the stomachs of District 10's children or provide shelter to the rootless, whatever. Instead of falling onto my instincts, I just shrug off Caligula's barrel of snide avowals, his bird-like flustering eliciting his thicker Capitol affectations.

Despite all the delicious fat and protein set before I am only given a slurry of fruit with a single egg, sunny side up. Magenta tinged crystaled berries scatter the perimeter, sweating apple slices command the area below them, scrumptious banana slices assembled into circular formation after, the oranges' exposed flesh are like oiled veins pumping juice in place of blood, and center stage is the egg, completing the carefully fruit-layered flora. It's a pulchritudinous presentation, but not what I want, not with all this delicious meat and fried delights set before everyone else.

I suppress my scream and smile, feigning thankfulness. I eat, masquerading as the obedient wench they desire, for now. There isn't much going on, just typical conversation, really, a few mentions of the other Reapings. I can't help but look to Roger, who sits conveniently near Harrison and Rex, all charm and gumdrops.

"Oh, is something wrong, Cecil?" He's sees through my pleasing demeanor, taking an obnoxious hear of my inner dialogue.

"Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all. I'm just not a big fan of apples." Roger offers to take them off my plate later and I gladly accept. Bastard, not even one day with these assholes and he's already sucking their cocks for approval. I may be chubby, but no one would second guess my cherubic appeal. He's not the only actor on this train.

"Um, excuse me; I just want to say something. I know my behavior last night wasn't acceptable and my conduct cannot be forgiven, but I plead for forgiveness still. I-I….I don't know what came over me, I don't usually act that way, ask anyone back home, I've never acted that way before. And waking up this morning was the pits, I felt so guilty, I probably hurt you all when all you're trying to do is help me, Caligula especially. I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I ca…." and I give what are my most fabled and coveted crocodile tears, appreciating that I learned to cry on command. I try not to lay it on thick, no need to drown them in my spoiled cream. People always absorb the magic of the performance by over-acting, failing to realize the grace lies within carefully paced subtlety.

"Oh, no, don't cry. My dear, please do not fret. All is forgiven. We both made some very atrocious testimonies. It's rare I'll handle a thirteen year-old, let alone a twelver. I just forgot to be more sincere with one so young, is all. Just please, nix the tears." Caligula surprisingly gives in first, removing himself from his seat and coming quickly to my stead.

"It's all right, Cecil. We're not bothered at all; we've dealt with tougher cases. It's a lot of pressure for a little girl to take, we know that." Harrison adds, dragging Rex by the hand and bringing us four into a constricting embrace. Over their shoulders I peak at Roger, and give a sly pull of the lips, my eyebrows raised in challenge. _Your move_, I think. Before long they all retire back to their seats, smiling reassuringly at me, and I grin widely back, a happy little biddy again.

"Well, now that that is over, it's time to discuss strategy, a healthy way to normalize, non? Now, Cecil, you may not be privy to this information but Roger has decided to be mentored separately. Don't worry, this is perfectly natural, especially among districts with more than one mentor to spare. With that aside, the only matter to settle is which mentor goes to whom. Gentlemen, if you would be so kind." Caligula states, his thin skin near breaking until he applies some sort of balmy blue relaxer. Roger looks to me, hoping I am not upset by recent developments, I just grin shyly. It makes no difference to me what he decides to do, in the end it's all the same, in the end only one of us comes home or not at all.

"I'll take the girl. Judgin' from las' night I can work wit' 'er." Rex simply states, asking for no approval from Caligula, his mate, or I. I was practically praying he wouldn't pick me, I've seen him on TV enough times to know he's doesn't get on well with people and I don't get on well with people either, so this union is bound to crumble.

"I guess that means I'll be working with you, Roger." Harrison practically beams, either happy he won't have to work with the sociopath or happy he'll get to work with the young and dumb jock, or both. I look to my plate and everyone else's, seeing only white, the meal has concluded, and immediately Rex has me through the door, telling Harrison not to have too much fun.

He grabs me violently by the shoulders, shoves me down into a chair, and takes a seat himself, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. His boots are covered by a parched filth, dust crusting downwards onto the fine glass.

"Caligula wouldn't like that." I say, my eyes set upwards at his Brobdingnagian frame.

"Ah, fuck 'em. I'm sick of hearin' his bitchin'. Been puttin' up wit' his shit fer ten years too many. Nuff about him, though. I needa see what I can do wit' ya. You're a decent nuff, actress, so that'll get ya somewhere in this show." He goes right into the meat of it. Not a single inkling or second wasted, all business and no pleasure.

"I dunno what ya can expect from the arena, but I know what ya _should_ expect from ya opposition. What not a lot of people realize is that this here game is more like a war. So ya gotta treat it like a war, no holds bar, complete commitment to winnin'. Ya already are, by the looks of it. Already have it out for your partner, do ya?" He speaks too swiftly but I hear his question in the end. For a big, "sexy" guy like him he is a lot smarter than you'd think.

"You could say that. I will kill him if that what it comes to but, for right now, I just refuse to be outdone by some brownnosing teen dream. The audience will love me as much they will him, if not more, of that, I'm positive. Oh, and why do you talk like that? It's ridiculous." I match his pace and disconnected pitch, scooping up some fatty snacks from the side table, a delicious pork rind with a nice fatty node tumoring on the side, a pork chop stuffed with provolone-mozzarella blended lava. Swine are true pearls, if you ask me.

For the next two hours we discuss strategy and about every possible hazard I may face. From how to navigate an ice slicked mountain to finding water in the desert, we do hit a few snags, arguments here and there, and a shouting match but we manage fine. By the end of the session I can honestly say I hate him, he's rude, vile, ill-tempered and ill-mannered, and, at times, not very serious about anything. Eventually I've had enough and storm out of the room, frustrated at his constant urging to lose weight.

"Ya said ya wanted to be a winner, right? That you won't let even yourself hold ya back? Well, you already are, by not lettin' anyone in." He plainly puts as I linger in the door frame, my head titled hell-ward. I sit in the other room and watch the scenery zoom on by, the trees but a green and brown wall, a blocky sky set atop. Roger sits down beside me and I turn away, not in the mood.

"Rough session with Rex?"

"Oh, yeah. Whatever." My words barely acknowledge and once more his intuition tracks it.

"What's your problem? One second you're all innocent and angelic and the next you're eating someone's larynx. What gives?"

"You think I don't see your act like you see mine?"

"What, you mean being _nice_? Well, excuse me then, princess."

"Oh, shut up. And don't call me that. What you call being nice is actually called flattery, dummy. But why would you need to flatter anyone? You can just fuck your way to the top and get whatever it is you please because that's how it works, doesn't it? If you aren't smart enough then you damn well have to be pretty enough because the world doesn't like ugly and stupid people, now does it?"

"What are you talking a-wait, you feel threatened by me, don't you?"

"What?! That's bullshit! Why should I have any reason to feel threatened by some pretty boy like you? Someone who probably can't even hold a butter knife. I can jump, flip, and kick with the best of 'em. Two time Junior rodeo champion, I've wrestled piglets and eaten steaks tough…" The train darkens, no sunlight coming through, just the artificiality of civilization. Roger's voice pierces the light.

"Shut up! Look, look! It's the Capitol; we're pulling into the fucking Capitol, holy shit!" He excitedly runs to the window, almost pressing his face against the glass, hands excitedly laid on the window, the biggest grin I've ever seen plays around on his lips. I ghost my way to the window, seeing it all for myself, taking in the most coveted city in all of Panem. The buildings rise higher than any I've ever seen, each one a palatable castle. The word skyscraper has new meaning, its etymology no longer a mystery. I almost expect a grand symphony to play, not in of us, the Tributes, but the urbane beauty that lies in wake. But I know not to fall for its mask, I know about facades, about visual lies.

I know before me is not a paradise, a Shangri-La, but the Minotaur's Labyrinth.

**A/N: Well, that's all folks. I hope you enjoyed it and don't forget to tell me in a review how much you liked it or how much you don't; I really don't care if you write one or not (Yes I do). I hope this isn't too bad. I'm too tired to put any real effort into editing right now. That's all I have to say for now, so, see you again soon! ~Jed**


End file.
